


The Gambler

by TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, Hunters Legends, Implied Major Character Death - non canon, Kenny Rogers - The Gambler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 01:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11886588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen/pseuds/TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen
Summary: On a warm summer's evening, On a train bound for nowhereI met another Hunter, We were both too tired to sleepSo we took turns a-starin', Out the window at the darknessThe boredom overtook us, And he began to speak....





	The Gambler

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Perfect Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9552452) by [Lochinvar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar). 



> As usual unbeta'd so apologies for any errors.
> 
> This work was inspired by a story from the wonderful Lochinvar, whose brilliant use of lyrics made me think about Supernatural and Songs. 
> 
> And of course The Gambler was already assigned to the character so this story practically wrote itself.

——oOo——

 

The train was chugging along through the empty middle of nowhere. Black night coasting past the windows, quiet and unbroken. The clickerty clackerty noise of steel wheels on iron tracks, a soothing rattle in the background.

The young hunter was tired. Nothing had gone as planned today, or Hell! this year even - if he was honest. He had scrambled out of the last town with the Law on his arse, the job incomplete. Wallet empty, he had only what he’d shoved in his ragged duffle and no idea of what he was supposed to do next. Sneaking aboard the old-fashioned train, destination unknown, seemed like as good an idea as any.

Now he was making his way down a slim corridor, straight out of a 1920’s spy movie and peering into compartments, trying to find an empty one to hide out in for a few hours - maybe catch some Zzzzz’s before he had to skip out from the guard checking tickets. But most were filled with quietly bustling young couples or families.

The hunter decided to give up and try the luggage cart, when he came to the last compartment in the carriage. It was almost empty. One scruffy old man sat hunched in the corner by the window. Collar of his large coat turned up, baseball cap pulled low, he appeared to be asleep.  It was the best option so far.

Quietly entering the compartment, the young man turned and closed the door behind himself before settling wearily onto the opposite bench. Dumping his duffle onto the seat beside him, he let his head clunk back against the headrest and closed his eyes, releasing his breath in an exhausted sigh.

When his eyes opened again, he was fixed by a steely grey gaze, peering out from underneath a ragged baseball cap.

Looks like the old dude wasn't asleep after all.

The hunter gave a small smile and a slight nod. The other just regarded him intently, eyes taking in every detail, face giving nothing away.

With a grunt the old man turned away to the blackness outside the window.  

The train had windows that could actually open, and at the top of the large solid plain, the small panel was allowing the warm night air to circle through the compartment. It was soothing. And lulled by the quiet and the gentle night air, the young hunter also turned to idly contemplate the unchanging night.

For a long time nothing moved.

It was out of the blue, some time later, that the old man spoke, eyes still fixed on the darkness.

“Son. I’ve made a life out of reading people's faces, knowing what their cards were, by the way they held their eyes.

It's the only thing that’ll keep ya alive in our line of work…..”

The young man startled at “our line of work” and looked questioningly at the other.

He hadn’t looked over, but nevertheless huffed in response to the unspoken question. “Gun at yer back, blood on the sleeve of ya jacket, silver knife hilt poking out of yer boot, ragged clothes an’ no luggage other than that duffel. And no train ticket either, the way you come stealing in here, 12 miles out from the station. Then despite looking like a wrong ‘un, on the run from the law, a polite nod for some old hobo ya don’t even know? Boy if you ain't a hunter I will be eating my cap.”

Wasn’t anything the young man could deny, seemed his luck was just going to keep on circling the crapper. At least the old guy didn’t seem inclined to act on his findings - so far anyway, the night was still young. With a rueful huff of his own and a shrug, he reached into his duffle to find himself a drink.

His long fingers found his lucky flask, and pulled it out. Raising it to his lips, he noted the old guy had finally turned from the window, grey eyes sharp with fierce intensity. “What ya got there?”

He paused his drinking. “Whisky.” he answered in his low voice. The old feller wet his craggy lips with a parched tongue.

“Well. I’ll tell ya what.” The old man assumed a somewhat fatherly attitude. “It's obvious you don't know yer arse from yer elbow. What ya need is someone who has been ‘round the block a’few times, can give ya some pointers. So what’d’ya say you give me some of that there whiskey and in payment I’ll give ya some advice.”

The flask was only half full and the young man’s first thought was how long it’d be till he could scrounge himself up another drink. But the piercing gray eyes were fixed confidently on his face, all he could do was offer another rueful smile and hand over the flask.

Reaching a time worn hand to take the drink, the other grunted with pain, and the younger noticed within the parted coat, blood stained clothes. He furrowed his brow, about to pose a question, but his eyes met once more with steel gray, the wrinkled face set like granite, and he could do other than watch as the old man firmly pulled closed his coat and took himself a drink.

Sitting back with a small frown, the matter troubled the young hunter. But he could think of no way to broach the subject when met with the wall of the elder’s response. Wishing momentarily that he had some more whiskey, the guy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered packet of cigarettes. Thank god for old fashioned trains and their smoker compartments. And this time as the other made eye contact, he didn't even hesitate. Tapping out a cigarette and passing it over with his lighter.

And for several long moments silence reigned within the cabin as the two men breathed in the sweet smoke and let tension fall from their bodies.

Ethereal whisps curled from the glowing coal of the slim stick held in battered fingers, and drifted out from between weathered lips, swirling around a craggy face, as the old man once more started speaking.

“If yer gonna play the game boy, ya gotta learn to play it right.”

In the deep stillness of a summer country night, rattling through the middle of nowhere, the old timer began to tell a fantastical tale.

He wove an incredible story about two boys he had once adopted, raised in blood and combat, they grew up to be heros. Through mistakes and heartbreak and overwhelming odds they had chosen loyalty and friendship and family. They had averted apocalypses, beat the devil himself and saved the world on occasions too numerous to count. And as he told of these incredible things, he slipped in advice on every topic from Enochian rituals to unbreakable devil's traps, from Vampire cures to Lamia hunting tactics. But what he spoke of most, was the secret to surviving. Knowing when to rush in and when to stop and plan - and how to pick your battles. Knowing what Hands to throw away and knowing what to keep.

And as he was finishing off, his eyes seemed to take on a light of their own, coming bright to life in his tired old face, a vision of the young hunter who had once taken on the world - and he uttered words that would stick with the stranger for the rest of his life.

There was only one end to this Hunter’s path they had chosen, he said, and they all had to lose sometime, but a smart player finished over the odds.

“Boy, every hand's a winner. And every hand's a loser. The best that you can hope for, is to die in your sleep.”

And with those last words, the old man crushed out his cigarette, flicking the stub out the window. Curling himself into his coat with a grunt, he pulled down his cap over his eyes  and appeared to drift gently into sleep.

The young hunter sat for long moments in silent contemplation. It wasn’t until the sound of the guard moving down the line, calling for tickets, broke his reserve and he hastened to gather up his belongings. As he moved to slip quickly out of the compartment, his eyes caught one final time on the hunched form of the old timer, the whisky flask still laying under his limp hand. The old man was still and silent, and hunter did not wish to disturb him just to retrieve the flask so he left it and slipped quietly from the room. Even as he hurried to stay ahead of the guard, there was a renewed spring in his steps and determination in his heart.

For in those final words, he’d found an Ace that he could keep.

FIN

\-----oOo-----

[Weekend At Bobby's](https://youtu.be/NHr_sZotrV0)

The Gambler - Kenny Rogers (link to YouTube Video in the title above)

 

On a warm summer's evening, On a train bound for nowhere  
I met up with the gambler, We were both too tired to sleep  
So we took turns a-starin', Out the window at the darkness  
The boredom overtook us, And he began to speak

He said, "Son, I've made a life, Out of readin' people's faces  
Knowin' what the cards were, By the way they held their eyes  
So if you don't mind me sayin', I can see you're out of aces  
For a taste of your whiskey, I'll give you some advice"

So I handed him my bottle, And he drank down my last swallow  
Then he bummed a cigarette, And asked me for a light  
And the night got deathly quiet, And his face lost all expression  
He said, "If you're gonna play the game, boy, You gotta learn to play it right

You've got to know when to hold 'em, Know when to fold 'em  
Know when to walk away, And know when to run  
You never count your money, When you're sittin' at the table  
There'll be time enough for countin', When the dealin's done

Every gambler knows, That the secret to survivin'  
Is knowin' what to throw away, And knowin' what to keep  
'Cause every hand's a winner, And every hand's a loser  
And the best that you can hope for is to die, in your sleep

And when he finished speakin', He turned back toward the window  
Crushed out his cigarette, And faded off to sleep  
And somewhere in the darkness, The gambler he broke even  
But in his final words, I found an ace that I could keep

 

Songwriters: Don Schlitz

The Gambler lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

 


End file.
